Swift Edge

by Laura Disilverio

  “Pulled what?”

  “A disappearing act. He went missing for nine days last time. It was a big deal. Some evidence suggested he’d been kidnapped, although there was never a ransom demand. His skating partner, Dana Something—”

  “Dara Peterson.”

  “That’s it. She insisted he was the victim of a serial killer. He turned up on his own after nine days. Said he’d been in the Bahamas, ‘taking a breather,’ and hadn’t paid any attention to the news, had no idea people were looking for him. Cost the taxpayers thousands.”

  My fingers tightened on the phone. I didn’t like being played for a fool. “Did you believe him?” Gigi looked at me curiously.

  “Hell, no. It wasn’t my case, but Jensen, the lead detective, told me it was a publicity stunt from start to finish.”

  “Thanks, Montgomery. I owe you.” I hung up before he could suggest a way for me to work off my debt.

  I told the waiting Gigi what Montgomery had said, pacing the small office as I talked.

  “I remember that,” she said when I finished.

  I glared at her. “You might have mentioned it before.”

  “I didn’t remember it before. I only remembered it now.” She twiddled with a gold button on her sweater. “Kendall had just started training with the BSC—the Broadmoor Skating Club—and we hadn’t actually met Dmitri and Dara then, but people were talking about it. Every time we went to the Ice Hall, there was a new theory floating around: He was kidnapped, he eloped, he was in an accident and got amnesia and didn’t know who he was, he cracked under the pressure and went home to Detroit. That was the summer that Dexter got arrested for shoplifting—”

  Not to be confused with the summer he got arrested for DUI or the fall he got suspended for paying a buddy to hack into the school’s computer and change his grade. His comp sci grade. His teacher probably would’ve given him an A instead of suspension if he’d been able to do the hacking himself.

  “—so we had other things on our minds,” Gigi finished. “Thank goodness he was okay. It turned out he was taking a little vacation and hadn’t told anyone. So thoughtless of him, not to realize people would worry. Well, that’s how kids are.”

  “Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. I wasn’t as willing as Gigi to extend the benefit of the doubt. Maybe if she weren’t so inclined to give others the benefit of the doubt, her husband, Les, might not have found it so easy to run off to Costa Rica with all their money and his personal trainer.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Dara Peterson,” I said, dialing her number as I strode toward the door. Clients lie. All of them. If I only accepted clients who told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I might as well declare bankruptcy right now. Still, I like to discourage the practice.

  6

  Somewhat to my surprise, Dara Peterson had a part-time job. It irritated me that I hadn’t stopped to wonder where a nineteen-year-old got the money to pay for a private investigator. She worked at Maggie Moo’s in the Shops at Briargate, an outdoor shopping plaza mere minutes from my office. Over the phone, she said she couldn’t leave but that it was quiet at the moment and we could probably talk. I hadn’t told her what I wanted, and the hope in her voice told me she thought I’d located Fane already.

  The store was small and, as promised, deserted when I walked in. Ignoring the turquoise and hot pink board advertising ice cream treats and the cow motif on the walls, I stood in front of the refrigerated cases holding gallons of ice cream in flavors ranging from Cotton Candy—a sickly blue—to Piña Cowlada (I kid you not). Dara appeared from a back room seconds after I walked in. She looked younger and more innocent in the Maggie Moo’s crisp cotton uniform with her dark hair pulled back by a pink headband. “Did you find out something?” she asked, her eyes bright.

  I skipped the preliminaries. “Why didn’t you tell me Dmitri had gone missing before?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think it mattered.” She tried to brazen it out but couldn’t hold my gaze.

  I let my silence and raised brows tell her what I thought of that.

  “This is different,” she insisted.

  “How?”

  “It just is! I was only fifteen when Dmitri went off to the Bahamas and I was naive about some stuff.”

  “Like?”

  “Like now I think Dmitri disappeared back then to get some private time with a lover,” she said, her dark blue eyes meeting mine squarely.

  “What if that’s what he’s doing now?” I let my skepticism show.

  “It’s not. I know him better and I’m older and it doesn’t feel the same. Something’s happened to him.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me about the earlier incident?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t take the case,” she admitted. “That’s why the police practically tossed me out of the precinct when I reported Dmitri missing. They think it’s a publicity stunt of some kind, but it’s not.”

  “You’ve lied to me—by omission,” I countered the objection forming on her lips, “and Dmitri has a habit of disappearing without letting people who care about him know that he’s going. He’s probably snuggling with a new boyfriend in a cabana on the beach in Belize or Bimini as we speak. So why should I keep looking for him?”

  “Because I’m paying you?”

  Good answer.

  The cowbell over the door tinkled, and a mom with two kids, aged about three and six, walked in. The older boy, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a miniature Raiders jersey, dashed toward the display cases and promptly pressed his dirty fingers and nose against the glass. The younger boy, not to be outdone, joined him and actually licked the glass.

  “Cole!” the mother said wearily.

  Dara moved down the counter toward the mom. “Can I help you?” Her tone and expression led me to believe she was not cut out for a life in customer service.

  “I want Cotton Candy with gummi bears,” the first boy said. “Lots of ’em. But no red ones. The red ones are icky.”

  “’nilla! I want ’nilla,” the younger boy shouted, wiping his snotty nose on the sleeve of a Batman T-shirt.

  “Vanilla is for babies,” his brother informed him, giving him a little push.

  “Is not!”

  “Is too!”

  “Not.” But doubt twisted the little face.

  “Where’s my Cotton Candy? Give me a big scoop. Put it in a waffle cone,” the older boy ordered Dara. He’d make a good prison guard in a few years. “Now,” he added.

  When the mother didn’t say a word about his manners, I took great pleasure in telling him sweetly, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn. I was here first.”

  I took my time ordering a scoop of Dark Chocolate—in a cup, no a cone, no a waffle cone, no a cup—from a grinning Dara.

  * * *

  Czarina Catering occupied a restored Victorian house on the southern edge of downtown Colorado Springs. A confection of gables and spires painted champagne with lime trim and a pink door, the house served as advertising for the business since Czarina Catering did a lot of weddings and was known for their creative (and expensive) cakes. Most of my information had come from food critic articles on the Internet and Czarina’s own Web page. I certainly had never used their services and couldn’t foresee an occasion when I’d cough up the funds for a catered affair.

  I parked in the postage stamp lot behind the house, next to a van painted in colors to match the house with CZARINA CATERING swirled along the side panel. Walking around to the front, I knocked once on the pink door and pushed it open. The foyer featured a Chinese rug and a chandelier with hundreds of small crystals refracting rainbows onto the walls. A snug office opened to my right, giving an impression of warm woods and Oriental-looking vases, but it was empty.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “In here,” came a man’s voice from the back of the house.

  Following the voice, I found myself in t
he kitchen, a much more utilitarian space. No frou-frou colors or decorative items here; everything was gleaming white or stainless steel. Yeasty, cinnamony smells wafted from the bank of ovens, and my mouth watered, reminding me I hadn’t eaten yet today. The air was warm and humid from the efforts of an industrial dishwasher sloshing under a small window that would have given a Victorian-era scullery wench a glimpse of what was now the parking lot. Two chefs—one male and one female—in jeans and T-shirts covered by white aprons wrestled with what looked like six or eight cake layers frosted with pale blue icing. I watched in awe as they assembled the layers with pillars in between, making the engineering feat of the pyramids seem like a piece of cake—hah!—by comparison.

  “For a baptism,” said a man at my elbow, regarding me with amusement.

  “A baptism?” I was incredulous. The magnificent cake looked more appropriate for a fiftieth wedding anniversary or a huge birthday party than a baptism. Would they freeze a piece of cake for the infant to eat on his first birthday?

  “I’m Gary Chemerkin. What can I help you with today?” the man asked, a hint of let’s-get-on-with-it in his voice. Despite the name, he had no hint of an accent. He was medium height and slim, with blond hair beginning to show gray at the temples. A closely barbered beard disguised a receding chin. Round glasses gave him a scholarly air. I put him in his midfifties. Unlike the cake wranglers, he wore gray suit slacks, a starched white shirt, and a silk tie that was a pastiche of champagne, pink, and lime green. I wondered if he’d had it custom made to match the business.

  “Wedding this evening,” he explained, catching me eyeing his clothes. “We’re serving a five-course sit-down dinner for two hundred.”

  “Wow.” I could maybe manage a sit-down dinner for two, on a good day, if the weather was nice enough to barbecue.

  “Let’s talk in the office,” he said, turning and leading me out of the kitchen. “Our brochures are in there. What kind of event are you thinking of? Not a wedding.”

  I was slightly insulted that he seemed so sure about that, but he was probably in the habit of checking out ring fingers. Either that or he had bride radar that keyed in on dewy flushed cheeks and the urge to spend enough money to keep a third-world nation solvent for years on the opportunity to be princess for a day, complete with swan ice sculptures and a cake modeled after Neuschwanstein. All financed by Daddy, of course.

  “Actually,” I said, settling into one of a pair of club chairs that faced the desk in the office, “I’m not throwing a party. I’m here about one of your employees, Dmitri Fane.” Over his shoulder, I could see a group photo of seven people, the happy Czarina Catering family, I deduced. Chemerkin stood front and center, beaming, one arm casually draped over Dmitri’s shoulders and the other around a dark-haired woman’s waist. All wore white aprons or chef’s jackets or white shirts with black bow ties.

  Chemerkin steepled his fingers. “Ah. And what is your interest, if I may ask, in Dmitri? You don’t look like his type, if you know what I mean?”

  I was taken aback by his thinly veiled hostility. “I’m a private investigator,” I said, handing over my card. “I’m trying to locate him for a client. When was the last time you saw him?”

  Chemerkin took his time answering, inspecting my card closely. “He was scheduled to work a party on Sunday,” he said finally, “but he didn’t show. I had to fill in as bartender at the last minute.”

  “Was that out of character? Was he usually reliable?”

  “Usually,” Chemerkin conceded, “although his skating commitments got in the way occasionally. Nothing mattered more to him than skating, and he traveled quite a bit, but he let me know up front when he was going to be gone so I wouldn’t schedule him.”

  “What exactly did Dmitri do for you? You mentioned bartending?”

  “He bartended, he waited tables, managed events on-site. He did pretty much everything except cook. He’s been with me for almost seven years—ever since he moved to Colorado. I was hoping that maybe one day he’d join me full-time.” He shrugged. “With him it was always skating.”

  “Do you have any idea why he’s gone missing? Was he upset about something? Was there an emergency of some sort?”

  The man hesitated, pursing his lips. “Well…”

  “What?”

  “There was an incident,” he said reluctantly. “Friday night. He was bartending for a party and there was … an incident.”

  “What kind?” This was like pulling teeth.

  “Apparently, the daughter of the couple hosting the party offered Dmitri a joint, and he refused. Women were always coming on to Dmitri,” Chemerkin said in a resigned tone. “Anyway, this one got in a snit, and accusations were tossed around.”

  “Accusations?”

  “Her parents threw Dmitri out and accused him of dealing drugs. I had to offer them a catered dinner for eight to keep them from calling the police.”

  “Generous,” I observed.

  “Nationals are next week—Dmitri didn’t need the stress interfering with his performance.”

  Chemerkin didn’t need rumors of drug dealing cutting into his business, either. “Any possibility Dmitri or one of your other employees was dealing?”

  “Absolutely not. All my employees are bonded. Most of them have been with me for years. The little madam was just getting back at Dmitri for turning her down.”

  “He told you that, I suppose?”

  Chemerkin flushed red, and I read imminent ejection in his eyes. I changed tacks. “Was Dmitri especially friendly with any of your other employees?”

  Chemerkin combed his beard with his fingers as he thought. “He was closest to Fiona,” he said finally. “Fiona Campbell.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  He jerked his head. “In the kitchen. She’s decorating the cake.”

  * * *

  Chemerkin said he didn’t mind if I talked to Fiona, so I headed back to the kitchen when he answered the phone. The cake was assembled, a multi-tiered edifice of glossy blue, decorated with real flowers and icing ones. It was hard to tell which was which. Both bakers, however, had disappeared. Damn. A chilly draft caught my attention, and I noticed the back door, the one leading to the lot where I’d parked my car, was cracked. A hint of cigarette smoke drew me to the door, and I found Fiona Campbell leaning against the brick wall of the small courtyard, smoking. She had shed her apron and was clothed in only jeans and a mulberry T-shirt that revealed a waifish build and set off the black hair framing her face in a wispy pixie cut. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms, but she seemed oblivious as she raised the cigarette to her lips and drew nicotine and sludge into her lungs. She ignored me, probably assuming I was headed for my car, until I spoke her name. “Fiona Campbell?”

  She didn’t move, but her eyes slid toward me, assessing. She took another pull on the cigarette. “Yeah?” Her voice sounded like cognac tastes, deep and rich, with an edge. It was incongruous coming from her thin frame. If she sang, she’d sound like Edith Piaf.

  “I’m Charlie Swift,” I said, crossing the cobblestone courtyard so I could face her. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Yeah?” Not a hint of interest sounded in her voice.

  “I’ve been hired to find Dmitri Fane.”

  A slight pause and a blink of her eyes this time before she said, “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I stared at her, determined to let curiosity work on her taciturnity. She caved after a full minute.

  “Who wants to find the shitbird?” She dropped her cigarette and crushed it with the toe of her black boot. Then she raised her eyes—an unusual bluish gray with a dark, almost purple rim around the iris—and looked me straight in the face for the first time, her expression a blend of defiance, anger, and something I couldn’t identify.

  “Gary said you were close,” I said, hiding my surprise.

  “Were.”

  “What happened?”

  “What the hell business is it of yours?”

  “
It’s not, unless it plays into his disappearance. When did you last see him?”

  She pulled another cigarette from a packet, more to give her hands something to do, I thought, than because she wanted a smoke. She didn’t light it. “Saturday morning. He came by here early to pick up his paycheck. I was here, decorating the cake for the Smith-Larsh wedding.”

  “What did he say? Did he mention leaving town, an emergency of some kind maybe?”

  She looked at me from under her lashes. “Gary tell you what happened Friday night?”

  I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself as wind gusted into the courtyard. It was getting colder.

  “I heard him tell Gary he was quitting. They argued.”

  “About what?” Funny that Chemerkin hadn’t mentioned either Dmitri’s quitting or their argument. I’d have to look at Mr. Czarina Catering more closely, see what else he might be hiding.

  “I don’t know. I was in the kitchen and they were in the office. After Dmitri said he was quitting, they closed the door and all I could hear was muffled shouting. I couldn’t make out the words.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I don’t know. I had to deliver the cake, and by the time I got back they were both gone.” She had peeled the paper off the cigarette as she talked, and now she scattered the tobacco shreds, letting the wind take them. Worry lurked in her eyes. “D’you think he’s okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “No reason.”

  When I didn’t say anything, she ran her hands up and down her arms. “It’s cold.”

  I still didn’t say anything, and she burst out, “Saturday was my birthday. He was supposed to take me and Tanya to dinner—we were going to Giuseppe’s—but he never showed up. He never even called! We waited an hour and a half. I finally made Tanya a PBJ.”

  I understood why she’d called him a shitbird. He’d stood her up. “Tanya?”

  “My daughter. She’s five.” Some of her tension eased as she thought about her kid. “She loves Dmitri.”

  “Is he—?”

  Real amusement flared in her eyes, making them look more blue than gray. “Tanya’s father? Nah, he plays for the other team, if you know what I mean. He’s been real good to Tanya, though. He was teaching her to skate. And he’s my best friend.” She said it wistfully, and I could see she was feeling guilty about being mad at Dmitri for standing her up. “When he didn’t show for the job Sunday night, either, I got really pissed at him, you know? I should have known something was wrong, that he wouldn’t flake out like that without a good reason. God, what kind of a friend am I?”